


Wine Sipping Communists

by linaerys



Category: Generation Kill (tv)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2008, recipient:sparky77
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:58:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/222215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linaerys/pseuds/linaerys





	Wine Sipping Communists

After the restaurant closes at 12am, Brad puts all the open bottles of wines-by-the-glass on the bar and says, "We're not leaving until these are done." He gives each of the busboys, the waiters, the sous chefs a stern look, then his gaze finds Nate. "Unless our superior officer has something to say about it."

Nate looks at the line of bottles--it's about twelve, and most of them are at least half full, but there is more than enough staff here to make short work of them. Usually management is picky about this sort of thing, but they'll look the other way on Christmas. Or the morning after.

He nods at the wine bottles, lined up like firing squad. "Go ahead. Just don't break anything."

Nate has to get up to Connecticut for Christmas a day late with his family. He can catch a 2am train out of Grand Central, and he should go back to his apartment to pack, but he probably wouldn't be able to keep from lying down and going to sleep and pissing off his family by not getting up there until late afternoon.

That and Brad thrusts a bottle at him, the most expensive one they serve by the glass, a Zenato Amarone that retails for $60 in stores. It's mostly full. Nate takes a swig--it's spectacular even right out of the bottle, raisiny and sweet and highly alcoholic--and passes it back to Brad. Brad presses his lips right to where Nate's were, and takes a drink that wets his lips dark red and pornographic.

Nate blushes and looks away. It's not fair that Brad has this effect on him. Nate's the top sous chef here, he would actually be called the head chef if the executive chef weren't an egotistical prick, but the new bartender can still make him flush and stammer like he's thirteen all over again.

Everyone was prepared to hate Brad. He was brought in over the heads of all the experienced staff, the day bartenders who had been waiting, longing even, for a chance at the night shift and the higher tips. But he has a cool, unassuming presence that calms down the dining room on all but the craziest nights, and something about the way he looks at patrons when he's handing them drinks makes them tip him like it's going out of style. Tips that get pooled.

Even Ray, the lounge waiter, who drove every bartender before Brad batty, has fallen under his spell. He still seems to annoy Brad, but no more than everyone else on earth does, so it's okay.

Nate hasn't had a chance to find out if _he_ annoys Brad yet, but he imagines he probably does. Why should he get to be the exception?

Brad holds out the bottle again, and Nate takes it from him. The bottle is cool against his hands, which are burnt and bruised from a brutal night in the kitchen. Half the staff was off for Christmas and the other half wished they were and acted like psychotic children, flinging hot pots at the stove with little regard for things like fire safety and who might be the way.

"When can we expect Captain America to grace us with his presence again?" Ray asked, insinuating himself next to Nate at the bar, and blocking Nate's view of Brad.

Nate frowned, and Brad said, "Yes, when will that blessed day arrive? We're all wondering when we'll get to put `freedom fries' back on the menu. It's nuances like that that give this establishment the aura of class we all so long for."

Nate leans over and gives the bottle back to Brad. Their fingers brush. Nate glances up, surprised, and meets Brad's eyes again. And blushes. Again. This is getting ridiculous. He take a handful of salted cashews out of a dish to cover his embarrassment. "He's coming in to do the New Years menu in a couple days."

"God help us," says Ray.

"Belay that, Ray," Nate cautions. "His uncle owns the place." He glances at Brad. He might be imagining it, but he thinks Brad's impassive expression shifts slightly, toward amusement or something friendlier than the look of boredom and disdain that is his default.

"Do we have spies?" Brad asks, sarcastic and conspiratorial.

Nate looks around the restaurant, letting his eyes linger on certain individuals who can always be trusted to look out for themselves over the team. "Quite likely."

Again the bottle of wine comes over to him. Ray is drinking beer he probably shouldn't be, expensive imported Belgian stuff, but the bar is Brad's business, and if he's not going to say anything, Nate isn't either. "I _have_ heard that Chef McGraw is releasing another book. He'll be on tour for at least three months."

"Halleluiah," says Brad.

"Are you sure?" Ray asks.

Nate meets Brad's eyes, and manages not to blush, although now he's staring, so it's probably not much better. "I am assured of this," Nate promises.

He's still looking at Brad when Brad takes a deep breath and seems to decide something. "Ray," he says, eyes on Nate, "go find someone else to talk to."

Ray takes that like he's used to it, slides off the bar stool, and goes to talk to Rudy, one of the waiters, on whom Nate suspects him of harboring a crush.

"Chef Fick," says Brad, because one of McGraw's--Captain America's--more irritating institutions is requiring everyone to address the chefs formally. Most of the staff dispenses with it unless McGraw is in the building, but Brad adheres to the rule perfectly, his contempt evident every time he uses an honorific.

"Yes, Brad?" Nate presses his lips together. He wonders if Brad's about to dismiss him in that same lofty way. Wouldn't that be the perfect cap on a thoroughly rotten Christmas?

"Will you please join me in the pantry?" He glances around at the party. "In about five minutes?"

Nate's mouth goes dry, but he chokes out an "okay" and then watches Brad's hips swivel as he threads his way through the tables and chairs already set up for the next night.

It's a long five minutes. Nate busies himself by pretending to look through the reservations list for the next night. He shifts some regulars into the sections of waiters who've been nice to him lately, not that it does much good. Encino Man, their dimwitted host, never seems to look at the book before seating people where ever he feels like it. Nate feels himself growing angry and takes a deep breath. It's really not worth his time and energy right now, not with Brad waiting for him in the pantry.

He carefully tries not to think what Brad might want him for. For all he knows, Brad wants to have a very serious discussion about food and wine pairings. It wouldn't be the first time. Brad has strong opinions about Syrah.

Nate glances at his watch. It's been four minute and thirty seconds. Long enough.

Brad is lounging against a chest high stack of potato boxes when Nate comes in. It's easy to forget how freakishly tall he is when Nate's not right next to him. Brad wears his height beautifully, as if it's not that he is tall, but that the rest of the world is short. But standing in the tiny pantry, Nate is acutely aware of how Brad looms over him by a good five inches. And Nate's no shrimp. By New York standards, he could even consider himself tall.

"Brad, you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, sir," Brad says. His voice is very low, and leaves Nate with the feeling that Brad calls him "Chef Fick" and "sir" not because McGraw wants him to but because he knows it turns Nate on. "I thought it was about time to find out if you wanted me to fuck you, nice and hard and slow over those bags of flour over there . . ." He pauses, and Nate just stares at him, his body confused about whether to blush or become harder than he's ever been before. "Or whether you'd rather fuck me." He reaches out, cups Nate's chin with his hand, and very deliberately brushes a thumb against Nate's lips. Nate almost passes out. "It's one of the two, isn't it?"

"Why choose?" Nate asks. He's proud of how his voice doesn't waver at all.

Then Brad's mouth is on his. It's an obscene kiss, wet and slow and inexorable. The only thing Nate wants more than to keep kissing Brad is to see what he's going to do next. He untucks Brad's slim-fitting black shirt and pulls it up over his head. Brad's nipples tighten in the cold pantry air, and then Nate's mouth is there, sucking them harder, working his way down Brad's taut, pale stomach, over the trail of soft blond hair that leads into the waistband of his jeans.

Nate undoes the button fly and shoves the jeans and the boxer briefs beneath them down, promising himself that later he'll get the chance to _look_ , that he'll get Brad home and just watch him walk around the apartment wearing nothing but those briefs, but for now they're just in the way of getting Brad's cock into his mouth.

Brad's been silent all the time, but now he groans, and starts talking. "God, your mouth," he says as Nate pops the tip of Brad's cock out from between his lips. "I've been thinking of this since . . ."

Nate's heard it before from other guys--his blowjob lips--and usually found it somewhat insulting, but from Brad he doesn't care. Brad's big hand wraps around the back of his head, gentle for a moment until Nate gets more enthusiastic, and then his grip grows firmer, pressing Nate's mouth onto him so his technique gets messier and his throat opens deeper, and he's so hard he can feel every tooth of his zipper digging into his cock.

But Brad lets go when he pulls his head back. "Not yet," he says through swollen lips. "Didn't you offer to fuck me?"

Brad's eyes are very big and dark, and his face has entirely lost its usual expression of disdain. His mouth hangs open and slack. He recovers quickly, but not so fast that Nate doesn't get a chance to record the image in his memory for whenever Brad makes him flustered. Or Captain America is annoying him. There's really no time he doesn't want to think of how Brad looks now.

"I did," says Brad. He produces a condom and a one-use package of lube from behind a tin of tomatoes. "So you don't worry," he says. "You look like the worrying type."

"You're like a boy scout," says Nate, fighting to hide a smile, but not very hard. "A pornographic boy scout."

Brad smirks. "That's quite an image." He traces a finger around Nate's ear and down the edge of his jaw, more soft and tender than Nate would have imagined from him. "You're the one who looks like he's barely out of high school."

That makes Nate flush, of course. "I'm twenty-three," he says hotly, but isn't too annoyed.

"Like I said." Brad's eyes are focused on Nate's lips, and then he kisses them again, opening Nate's mouth with his tongue and pressing back him toward the bags of flour. He draws down Nate's trousers and palms his dick through the fabric of his boxers. "You want me to fuck you?" he asks again.

It's all Nate can do not to start humping Brad's hand, but he keeps his hips still and licks his lips. "I said I did," he says, feeling a frisson of fear and excitement. There's something about Brad, something disquieting, like his absolute self-containment might cover some pretty scary mental issues. If Nate were totally well-adjusted himself, that wouldn't be a turn on, but as it is, he gasps with anticipation when Brad uses his considerable strength to turn Nate over and press him down over the bags of flour.

Brad pulls Nate's boxers down around his ankles. The cold air of the pantry makes his balls try to draw up and away, but then Brad's hand is there, stroking him hard, as he leaves hot, wet kisses on Nate's lower back. Then his tongue slides between Nate's cheeks and Nate almost tries wriggles away. His mind vacillates between "hot" and "gross" and but all he can say is "nnngghhhh," trapped between Brad's hand and his mouth.

Brad takes his sweet time, licking and stroking, until Nate is pushing back against him, begging wordlessly for more, more tongue, fingers, cock, anything, just more. Brad's tongue fucks into him, hot and dirty and not nearly enough. "God . . . _please_ ," he says finally, and then Brad replaces his tongue with a cool, lube-slicked finger, and Nate pushes back onto it, unashamed now. Gross or not, he's not going to complain.

Brad kisses his back, his hips, leaving little stinging bites as Nate presses back against the fingers spreading him open. Brad's hand leaves his cock for a moment and he almost whimpers, but then he hears the sound of a condom wrapper tearing, and then the blunt, fat head of Brad's cock is against his entrance. There's a moment, like always, where no matter how hot and ready he is, he thinks the magic won't work this time, but then it does; Brad works his way inch by slow inch into his ass.

"What took you so long?" Nate asks, grinning and trying to glance back over his shoulder. Next time he's going to be on top of Brad, watching his every expression as he rides on Brad's cock. He hopes to God there's a next time.

"I've been ready," he adds. His voice is ragged, but he doesn't care, because Brad is moving slowly and carefully, like he's carrying a tray of full martini glasses, and Nate knows Brad's as close to the edge as he is. Brad works himself slowly out again, and then back in, smoother this time, but still so slow and careful that Nate might scream.

The next time he shoves himself back, hard, onto Brad's dick, and is rewarded with a choked off noise of pleasure. Brad's hand comes around to jack his dick again, and then Brad's fucking him hard, and stroking him off, and Nate remembers just in time to come onto his hand so he doesn't get anything on the flour sacks that they're all going to be cooking with for the next month. The aftershocks are still making his vision go blurry when Brad comes in him, deep and hard, and presses his chest against Nate's back.

"I thought it was possible," says Brad, in a voice that's maddeningly calm and collected, "that you might want to fuck me."

"Now?" ask Nate incredulously.

Brad chuckles. "No. In general. Instead."

They can't get any closer than they are now, but still Nate presses back against him, feeling every inch of skin that's touching. "In addition to, perhaps," he says, trying to imitate Brad's cool tone. "Definitely not instead."

  



End file.
